by Alex Wheatle
Trying desperately to decipher Martha’s clipped English accent, Hortense also failed to detect her humour. She decided to say nothing as she was led to a chair upon the verandah. Martha went inside to fetch some drinks and Hortense took the opportunity to whisper to her husband. “Me cyan’t understand ah word she say. She talk too fast, mon. It’s like she ah talk inna foreign tongue. Don’t de English talk English?”
“Nuh boder yaself. It sound strange to me when me first hear Martha talk but yuh soon get used to it.”
Martha returned with a silver tray burdened with a bottle of white rum, a jug of cola, three glasses and a bowl of ice. She poured out the drinks. “Hortense, my husband always complains that all I ever do is quaff alcohol in the mornings so don’t tell him about our morning tipple, will you.”
“Er, yes, Miss Martha,” Hortense replied, not sure of what Martha had said. “Me husband sometimes tickle me inna de marnin to try an’ mek me laugh.”
Rocking back in laughter, Martha nearly dropped her drink. Cilbert, looking very uncomfortable, sipped his rum as if he had to make it last for a week. “No, Hortense,” Martha chuckled. “I don’t think you gathered what I said! Oh, what the hell! Why shouldn’t I enjoy my rum in the mornings while my husband plays his silly war games up in the hills. My! I don’t know who is more insane? The young soldiers who perform their exercises in full uniform in this unbearable heat, or the people that demand that they should do it!”
Thinking Martha’s last comment was a joke, Hortense laughed politely.
“Now, to business,” Martha resumed. “Hortense, I expect you to arrive at ten o’clock; you can perform most of your chores at that time without me getting in your way. I never rise before eleven. I just expect you to keep the house respectable. My husband sometimes complains that when he has all these guests coming here for drinks, the house is not spick and span. It embarrasses him. He only wants to impress his friends who are on social terms with the governor, very boring people but I will not go into that. Cilbert swears faithfully that you are a good cook and it would be a blessing if you could cook the evening meals for us. I’m afraid I have to admit that my culinary skills are not quite up to it and my skin comes out in an awful rash if I stay in the kitchen for any length of time. It’s the dreadful heat.”
“Hortense ah well ably cook,” interjected Cilbert, nodding and still grinning a silly grin.
“I’m sure she is,” said Martha, her eyes fixed on Hortense, admiring her beauty. “Hortense. May I call you Hotty for short?”
Hortense stuttered. “Well, er. Yes, Miss Martha. Back home people did ah call me ‘Fire Nettle’ inna me young days but now me married everybody call me Mrs Huggins…”
“So that is settled,” interrupted Martha. “I will call you Hotty. Would you like to start on Monday? My husband said he would like to give his approval to you before you start but I cannot see the logic in that. He’s hardly ever here and I’ll be the one you’ll have to get along with. Hotty, would you care for more rum?”
“Nuh t’ank yuh, Miss Martha. Me don’t finish me first glass yet. Monday alright by me.”
“That is splendid,” said Martha. “I can tell you it’s a weight off my mind. It will present me time to socialise a bit more. My husband always says I’m cooped up in the house too much. Maybe if I had children…”
Martha trailed off and her face briefly betrayed some loss or grievance. She picked up her glass and drained half of its contents. She regained her smile. “Yes, Hotty. We will get along just fine. To be honest with you I need the company rather more than I require a house-help.”
Hortense shot Cilbert a growing look of alarm. Cilbert simply smiled back, his body language betraying his self-consciousness.
Having translated what Martha expected of Hortense, Cilbert escorted his wife to Coronation market in the afternoon and there he could only admire the way she haggled for prices and conducted herself in her new environment. They lunched at a harbourside fish restaurant and Hortense took the opportunity to gaze out to sea, wondering in which direction America and England lay; exhausted, drenched teenage boys were hovering around the owners of expensive yachts in the harbour, trying to sell shells and ‘pearls’ they had found on the sea bed.
In the afternoon Cilbert took his wife to Kingston’s craft market, an expansive, warehouse type building where retailers sold handmade souvenirs, paintings, postcards, wooden carvings and everything else they thought would sell to a fresh visitor from abroad. After much deliberation and listening to the sales patter of two dozen retailers, Hortense purchased an African hand-carved mask.
Returning to Trenchtown in the late afternoon, Hortense found her government yard had come to life. Children were playing in the forecourt, women were singing and humming while going about their chores, the air was laced with the steam off cooking pots, transistor radios were blaring, men were playing dominoes and one young guy in a corner, who had fashioned a guitar out of old fishing lines, a sardine can and wood, was quietly strumming away putting a song together. Once Hortense had placed her shopping in her home, she set about greeting her new neighbours warmly. The men were enthusiastic to meet her, running their eyes over Hortense’s lithe figure. The women were a little more cautious, regarding their menfolk from the corner of their eyes. Cilbert felt a pang of jealousy.
Hortense was soon asked if she would attend the ‘lawn dance’ the next Saturday in nearby Pink Lane where the giant sound system, Duke Reid the mighty Trojan, would be spinning the latest Rhythm and Blues from America. She learned of Duke Reid’s ‘houses of joy’ – wardrobe-sized speaker boxes that could be heard by ‘duppy slaves ’pon de ocean bed of de Atlantic’. Residents of the government yard spoke in awe of Duke Reid’s now legendary ‘microphone mon’ Count Clarence. Hortense soaked all this exciting information in like a desert nomad drinking water after a long trek.
Chapter Ten
Approaching the lawn dance, Hortense, clad in a sleeveless white frock and pointed white shoes and Cilbert, sporting a short-sleeved shirt, baggy brown pants and black brogues, could both feel the quiverings of Duke Reid’s sound system beneath their soles. Hortense, trying hard not to look fresh from the country, attempted to walk in the confident manner that other Trenchtown young women had perfected – a ‘rockin’ an’ rollin’ strut with the emphasis on shivering the backside on every foot-fall. Hortense couldn’t quite get it right as Cilbert chuckled at her efforts. “Hortense! Stop try sway ya backside becah yuh will soon drop like ah one foot mon ’pon ah walking wire.”
“We inna Trenchtown!” returned Hortense, feeling the grip of Cilbert’s hand tighten. “Yuh affe do wha’ de Trenchtown people do.”
Over-awed, Hortense could see burly bare-backed men off-loading countless crates of beer from a Red Stripe truck. Hundreds of people milled about the lawn-dance entrance, spilling onto the street, anticipation and excitement upon their faces. Up to five thousand ravers had already paid the entrance fee and were inside the lawn dance area. Seven foot high corrugated sheeting providing the perimeter fencing. Outside, a multitude of service industries catered for the patrons. Spirals of smoke climbed into the Kingston night. Among the enterprises jostling and elbowing for space were peanut-punch vendors, sky-juice, jerk chicken and pork takeaway merchants, fresh-fruit sellers, roasted fish grillers, mobile curried goat kitchens, crushed ice retailers, nut and raisin sellers, cigarette and tobacco merchants, cannabis dealers, manesh water brewers, meat pattie outlets, fried dumpling and fish fritter fryers and Jamaica’s established rum wholesalers. They all tried to out-barter each other as Kingstonian elders looked on from the other side of the street and wondered if their daughters were really attending night mass.
Deciding on a snack of fried dumpling and roast mackerel, Hortense and Cilbert joined the fifty-yard queue to gain admission as Duke Reid’s ‘houses of joy’ could be heard all over western Kingston.
Once inside, Cilbert bought a Red Stripe beer for Hortense and himself and observed the
hollering crowd. People were jiving all around them, contorting their bodies, shaking their backsides and swinging their arms to Peeling Prince Crocodile, King Bow Tie, Lord Bangarang, The Swing Duke of Chacahoula, The Mighty Mule and his Black Roosters and Louis Jordan backed by his Tympani Five. Sweat glistened on their faces as Duke Reid’s ‘master skankers’ displayed their new dance steps to the crowd. ‘Stuckies’ and ‘streggaes’ – shanty town whores, were ‘greasin’ de poles’ of young men – their naked thighs rubbing against the crotches in a corkscrew motion in hope of financial reward later on. Dreads smoked cannabis openly in long pipes and chalices. Other rastas, sitting in a shadowed corner, were passing to each other a ‘koutchie’ full of lambs bread – a variant of the cannabis plant. The smoke they emitted acted as a barrier to them and the throng who did not want to get too close. Table-shuddering games of domino were being played and provoking endless dispute. Conmen and tricksters had set up their tables with green cloths, cups, balls and playing cards; their smiles were wide and accommodating. Chinese-Jamaicans threaded through the crowd to sell their ‘number’ tickets. Posses of rival western Kingston communities spent their time constructing macho poses and bad-eyeing each other. Drunken and doped-up men were beaten up and robbed, then flung outside into the street, swift-footed ghetto-opportunists making off with their footwear. Baggy-suited and stetson-hatted street toughs played and posed with their German-made ratchet knives, some of them skilled enough to peel an orange with just the one hand. Duke Reid’s ‘rough gal bodyguards’, armed with baseball bats and meat cleavers, guarded the ‘houses of joy’ from other jealous sound system men who might be in the crowd. Their stony expressions were uncompromising and they were kitted out in black blouses and black skirts.
Wide-eyed, Hortense turned around on the same spot, not quite believing what she was seeing. Abruptly, a fanfare sounded out from the speakers and the crowd parted as if a leper had suddenly materialised and wanted to play a game of tag. Sitting in an elaborately red and gold upholstered chair that was carried by four men dressed in black and crowned by black berets, was the thickset figure of Duke Reid himself, the Trojan. An array of torchlight spotlit him. An oversize black cape was buttoned to his neck and fell to his feet. Upon his head was a golden coronet with fake red, gold and green stones. In his right hand he was holding a stick that had been painted gold. In his left hand was a shotgun that he pointed towards the sky. He looked down at the baying crowd as if they were his subjects.
The ‘Trojan’ was carried to his ‘control tower’ – where his American made amplifiers, decks and records were waiting for him. He stood up in his cowboyboots and gave a kingly wave to the crowd as he allowed his ‘foot soldiers’ to disrobe him. Gold rings decorated his fingers. Under his cape, and strapping a red-coloured waistcoat were two bandoliers of bullets criss-crossing his chest. Two silver-coloured guns rested snugly in brown leather holsters about his waist. He then aimed his shotgun into the warm Kingston night and fired a shot. The crowd went crazy. Hortense was transfixed watching the Trojan’s performance.
Count Clarence, the six foot eleven master of ceremonies, picked up the microphone as the Trojan opened his gold-dusted record box with a gold-coloured key. The Count was wearing a crooked, dusty top-hat and a faded red patched-up hunting jacket. His shoes were cut away at the toes to allow them to fit and his yellow pants only tickled the top of his streaky calf muscles. Hortense thought he looked like a clown she had once seen in a picture book but Clarence looked deadly serious. “Now we ready!” he announced, surveying the chanting masses as if he was about to give the Gettysburg address. “De Duke is here! De warm up session finish! We tek it from de top to de very las’ drop! An’ we sound sweeter dan ah bird inna tree-top! An’ while de Duke is getting ready, let me tell ya about de woe ah Miss Whiny Waist.”
Count Clarence cleared his throat as the crowd hushed.
“Miss Whiny Waist ah live inna gulley near ah Salt Lane
She still feel her parents deat’, it was ah grievous pain.
She never did ah learn, she never go ah school
Before she was fourteen, she bruk her virgin rule.
Four chile she ’ave by Stub Toe John
But when de fourt’ did ah pop out, Stub Toe John gone.
She ah work inna restaurant to try an’ survive
But her Chinee mon boss molest her like she ah wife.
Miss Whiny Waist kick de Chinee inna him face
Den she tek up her foot to mek great haste.
She gone back to her children, nuh money to feed dem
So she decide to become ah streggae, teking up all ah her hem.
Yuh see her at de dances, greasin’ mon pole
Sometimes she gone ah hotel, wid ah white mon she ah roll
She nuh care if dey young or weder dem ole.
She will grine yuh ah bush an’ even in de gulley
But if yuh don’t waan scar yuh better pay de fee.
She nuh feel ashamed an’ she demand yuh call her Miss
But nuh pounds and pence coulda mek her give yuh ah kiss.”
Displaying their appreciation of Count Clarence’s storytelling, bad men fired their guns into the navy-blue sky while others roared their acclaim. Hortense fell down to the turf, covering her head with her hands, thinking some kind of gang war had erupted. “Lord me Jesus! Dem ah fire ’pon each udder!” Cilbert picked her up but it took Hortense a few minutes to realise that Kingstonian acknowledgment didn’t come in the form of rum toasts and a pound note slapped against the forehead. Nearby ravers stifled their chuckles with their palms and muttered under their breath, “look ’pon de fool fool country woman!”
Downing another Red Stripe to compose herself, Hortense, wanting to prove a point, led Cilbert by the hand and they proceeded to jig wildly to the sounds of the American south – raw, black, rock and roll and New Orleans ‘jook joint’ jazz. “Me might as well do wha’ de Kingston people ah do,” Hortense told herself, hardly hearing herself speak. Cilbert could only keep up with his wife for an hour before he took a breather, observing a domino game. Hortense accepted other men’s offers to dance with them and jigged them to a standstill, laughing as she did so while picking up her dress to expose her thighs. Men formed a circle around her and clapped their hands, some of them wolf-whistling, some blaring their klaxons. One man even offered a wedding proposal. Hortense felt that Kingston had finally given its blessing to her. Cilbert looked on with a mixture of pride and outrage.
Upon the midnight hour, Duke Reid played a Jamaican song, a jazz infused mento tune by a singer named Wilfred Gray. It was entitled ‘Bad breed neighbour ah t’ief me Sunday chicken.’ The crowd went absolutely wild, demanding a play-back. The throng not only received a play-back, they also had Wilfred Gray there in person, accepting the microphone from Count Clarence; Wilfred was only five foot two and the difference in size didn’t escape the Kingston audience. “Look ’pon Goliath an’ David!” someone yelled. “Wilfred! Where ya slingstone?”
To riotous cheering, Wilfred burst into the chorus of his popular song. “So me knock ’pon de door of me bad breed neighbour, chicken feders was ’pon him arms an’ all over…”
Dodging the countless empty bottles that were all over the lawn and scattered upon the street outside, a brooding Cilbert escorted Hortense back home. Once inside, Cilbert slammed the door shut.
“Me never feel so much shame inna me life!” Cilbert yelled. “Yuh forget yuh married to me? Wha’ yuh t’ink yuh was doing dancing like ah blue foot wid stranger?”
Hortense innocently shrugged her shoulders. “Wha’ me do wrong? Me only dancing. Me cyan’t help it if ya foot tired an’ yuh waan’ tek ah res’. Wha’ yuh expect me to do? Stan’ up an’ do not’ing an’ look ’pon de nuh teet’, dry foot people dem who ah beg money? We pay good money to go ah dance so me waan to get me enjoyment.”
“Enjoyment! Dat is wha’ yuh call it? Nuh wife ah mine will embarrass me! Yuh hear me!”
“If yuh don�
�t like it den nex’ time me will go ah dance ’pon me own. Cilbert ya too possessive.”
Cilbert, becoming more enraged by Hortense’s dismissive words, marched up to her, his eyes blazing. Hortense didn’t back away an inch. “So wha’? Yuh come to beat me now? Who yuh t’ink yuh is? Me mudder? Yuh t’ink dat me cyan’t fight mon?”
“Nuh! Yuh is me wife an’ me nah tolerate ya behaviour. Ya carry on jus’ like dem streggae women.”
“So yuh t’ink me ah Jezebel? Come outta me face, Cilbert, becah yuh talk pure fart! Me foot well tired an’ me waan me bed.”
Unable to keep the leash on his temper, Cilbert swung a right fist that struck Hortense’s left jaw. She fell to the ground, tried to get up but her legs buckled from the shock. She crawled to the bed, climbed on top of it and lay prostrate upon her back. Cilbert, immediately regretting his actions, studied his right fist before gradually releasing it. He stood rooted to the spot, his eyes shifting between Hortense and his right hand. He then went to pour himself a drink; a shot of undiluted white rum. Grimacing as the spirit scorched his throat, he then undressed to his briefs before dropping onto the spare bed.
As the roosters chorused in the dawn hour, Trenchtown mothers awoke their young sons and sent them scampering to the lawn dance site to collect as many returnable bottles as they could carry. On their way home they saw scores of women heading for church, singing as they did so. But no fowl’s cry or gospel song had awoken Cilbert.
Suffering an excruciating pain in his genitals, Cilbert opened his eyes, raised his head and looked down beyond his belly button. Hortense, a bread knife in one hand that was poised over his limp penis and his testicles firmly viced in her other hand, regarded him with cold eyes. In a calm voice, almost a whisper, she swore, “lick me again an’ as de Most High is me witness, me will chop off ya strikin’ seedbag an’ mek ya walk like t’ree leg donkey. Y’understand me? Me had to endure dat kind of tribulation from bwai when me der ah school but me woulda prefer dead to allow me own mon to beat me. Try dat again an’ see which one of we mek appointment wid Dovecote cemetery first!”
